


The Morpho

by TurboTavia



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Multi, Post-Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-10-28 21:39:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17795228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TurboTavia/pseuds/TurboTavia
Summary: After the failure of the uprising, Detroit is seeing a large increase in android-related crimes, skyrocketing the death-by-machine rate. Despite their objections, the DPD is forced to resume assistance from RK-800, as well as the new addition RK-900, to help remind the android population that humans are still in charge.





	1. AX-300

**Author's Note:**

> Reads best on desktop.
> 
> Many, many thanks to my editors Brennan, Derpy and Jenko, without whom this would have been a mess!

Many thanks to [Nana](https://twitter.com/nanadzl_) for this beautiful piece.

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𝔸𝕏-𝟛𝟘𝟘      


The glass doors silently glide open to reveal a stern, emotionless face. A mechanical voice confirms the floor number and, taking it as a sign, the man steps out of the elevator. His tie straightened and his coin safely hidden in his breast pocket just beneath the glowing letters RK-800; which he taps for good measure; he appears ready for action. Though cool and collected.

His eyes flit over the scene in front of him, taking in the broken glass and muddy footprints scattered all across the room, collecting at the door to the elevator. Someone was keen to get out. A turn of his head confirms this assumption; sixteen outlines of the same fingerprint on the elevator button. The crunch of his shoes on glass draws his eyes downwards, soon followed by his body as he lowers onto the balls of his feet. Picking up a piece of glass, his eyes focus, a line appearing on his forehead. Thick, clear and shattered. Presumably from the outer window to the building. He runs his eyes over the entire floor again, considering a reconstruction in his mind.

The man steps around larger piles of glass to make his way through the doorway to a conjoining room, teeming with life. Bouncing his eyes from person to person, he notes their names and roles, varying from responding officer to crime scene investigator to police lieutenant. No one out of the ordinary. He draws his attention to the room itself, being much more important.

There is glass everywhere. Crackling under the feet of the six people in the room, each going about their business. There are seven yellow signs dotted about the room within his line of sight, each marking evidence and reading a number; one through eight, not including three. It must be nearby.

Pieces of torn cloth and smaller shards of glass swirl on the floor, drawing his attention to the source of the breeze; a smashed window. He stands by the edge of it, a hand leaning on the glass as he looks out at the Detroit skyline beyond.

Thirty-nine floors. The second-tallest building in detroit save for the broadcasting tower. All domestic. Exit this way seems futile, he thinks, looking down. Besides, the evidence from earlier indicated an escape via the elevator. At least the excess of large chunks of glass confirm his theory that someone entered through the window.

He turns to again view the room, a small, circular LED by the side of his right eyebrow blinking yellow briefly before returning to blue as his eyes settle on an out-of-place object in the far corner of the room. Making a sudden beeline for it, he edges around a cluster of people in his way, being careful not to brush against them. Upon closer examination, he notices it is a wooden chair leg. Seemingly odd in itself, he then recalls not having seen any wooden furniture in the apartment at all. There are no fingerprints on it.

"Connor," a gruff voice and a thump on the shoulder interrupts the man's line of thought and his eyes flick to the owner, sliding in and out of focus. Lieutenant Hank Anderson. A brief overview of his file and the man is ready to approach conversation.

"Lieutenant, a pleasure to meet with you despite the circumstances," his voice is cool and even, much like his expression, though his eyes seem friendlier and human.

"Yeah yeah, spare your niceties for another time. When did you get here?" there is a distinct aftertaste of whiskey on his breath and his voice is hoarse as though talking is a chore.

"Approximately eleven minutes and twenty-three seconds ago, lieutenant," is the response he receives. "With your permission, I would like to investigate further."

A nod of the head and the man, Connor, has once again focused on the chair leg, this time with the lieutenant watching over his shoulder. There appear to be traces of DNA potentially matching the resident of the household, whose body was found just two hours, six minutes and thirteen seconds earlier on the roof of the complex. There is enough evidence to suggest the assailant beat the resident hard enough for skin to have been burst and particals to have been left behind.

Connor's eyes follow the splatter of blood near to the leg, marked with the number seven, where he dips his fore- and middle-finger then presses both to his tongue, which causes a sound of displeasure from the man stood behind him. A second-scan of the DNA later, and the information is flicking through his eyes like lines of code. Roy Gilbert, 43 years old, widowed at 38. Somewhere in the file, Connor comes across a receipt confirming the purchase of an android AX-300 model; a common household chore android, ideal for childcare. An odd purchase considering his lack of children, by the information in his file. A scan of the room suggests no cleaning for at least three weeks however, one of the chores of the AX-300. The apartment is a mess, so much so that food and discarded trash have begun to grow mould.

He then comes to notice the missing yellow sign, the little number three just in his line of sight, a few feet to his right behind a pillar. It rests amongst a pile of some white, sharp fragments. Seemingly the pillar is protecting it from the breeze, and it is displayed in a way that suggests a blood splatter, but without the blood obviously. Connor's lenses contract, taking a visual sample and deducting the substance to be that of an android casing. He gets to his feet a little faster now, almost certain of his theory, and spins to walk in the opposite direction of the splatter, almost rounding into Hank.

"Watch where you're goin', you fuckin' android," the lieutenant snarls, making it clear that he's in no mood to step aside for Connor, who instead easily steps around him and continues on his journey. Hank appears a little confused, obviously expecting some retaliation. His eyes soften and follow Connor's trail to two evidence signs stood by a large pool of blood and another white pile of casing.

"You onto something?" he asks, following his trail then joining the Connor's side.

"Maybe," Connor replies, his LED circling in blinking, yellow flashes.

"Well, what do you think?"

Connor's eyes flow over the room once more, from the broken window, to the chair leg in the corner, then to the casing in the corner, and the blood pile in the centre of the room. Finally he looks towards the doorway, at the muddy footprints.

"I'll need to see the rooftop to be sure," he replies coolly, making his way back to the elevator with the lieutenant hot on his heel.

 

════════════════════════════════════════════════════

 

The elevator door pings and slide open once again, followed by the announcement "Thirty-ninth floor; rooftop". Two footfalls make their way across the concrete, one slumping and irregular, the other surefooted, one foot carefully in front of the other.

Connor comes to a stop, eyes flitting around the scene in front of him. It looks like a regular rooftop aside for the large pool of blood by the side of an air vent, surrounded by police officers and crime scene investigators. But Connor isn't interested in them. His eyes rest on a seemingly harmless scene to their right. A rooftop garden, lush in fruits and vines, and hidden away in it all, a wooden table and three chairs. Three.

He strides over, eyes not leaving the chairs as he assesses their components; myrtle wood with a green, cracked varnish. Just like the leg they found downstairs. But these three chairs were intact.

The occasional rubbing of his nose and gruff clearing of his throat behind him reminds Connor of the lieutenant's presence, and he looks back over his shoulder at the man.

"There is a chair missing," he tells Hank, who scoffs.

"I gathered that much. It's the same wood as the leg downstairs."

"Yes~," Connor trails. His eyes wander to the edge of the rooftop, mostly invisible behind the excess of plants. But he can just make out something metallic, like a cage.

It's not a cage. It's a service platform. Not a reliable one at that. It appears new, small and definitely not built to city requirements. His lenses focus on the floor of the platform. Wood splinters. He turns on his heel to the lieutenant who snaps to attention almost immediately.

"Spit it out then," he says, arms folded.

"This was an accidental killing," Connor announces, much to Hank's dismay. "There were two people involved; the victim Roy Gilbert and an android."

"What makes you think it's an android," Hank is clearly intrigued but the assumption.

"There are shards of its casing in the apartment downstairs. It clearly did not go to plan. This platform as well," Connor continues, "was constructed much too fast and accurately for any contracted human to have done. The assailant made preparations to descend to the victim's window, where it then broke through in means of surprise. Its weapon of choice; the chair leg. It was not instructed to kill. It could have killed the man by the flick of its wrist. It only aimed to harm him."

Hank's brow is furrowed in thought, eyes drawn to the chairs, then the platform. "And then what?"

"The victim was sturdier than the assailant had hoped. He fought back, damaging the android but not enough to draw Thirium; the blue chemical that power an android's biocomponants. So the android was forced to subdue Mr. Gilbert, beating him until he bled. As the android was distracted, the victim made its way to the elevator, in an attempt to escape. But by the time it had arrived, so had the assailant. It carried and then deposited the victim," he gestures over to the blood pool, "where he soon bled to death."

"Shit," Hank sucked his teeth. "You think the murder was accidental?"

"I do. I also believe that the android was a deviant. No one machine can be programmed to make rash decisions like this one did."

"Android or human, this kind of shit doesn't happen on accident. Why would it have wanted to keep him alive?"

"To suffer perhaps," Connor hums. "Or to gain information."

Hank looks up at Connor, frowning slightly. "You think it wanted to torture him for information?"

"It's too early to say for sure, but it certainly looks this way. Either that or revenge. We won't know for sure until we find that android."

"We don't even know what we're looking for," the lieutenant grumbles, rubbing the back of his neck to relieve some tension.

"Mr. Gilbert had an android. We can pull up some information on that. And I'm sure the elevator in this building has a security camera."

The response is a shake of the head. "They were wiped this morning and haven't been reactivated since."

A yellow blink of his LED and a short downcast look as he thinks before Connor meets Hank's gaze once more, eyes seemingly glowing. "Yes. But somebody must have come to the roof to construct the platform."

The realisation sinks in as Connor hops forwards towards the elevator, fists swinging at his sides, and Hank jogs after him.

 

════════════════════════════════════════════════════

 

The large silver coin bounces effortlessly from one smooth hand to the other, creating a rhythmic tinkling noise each time it is flicked. Two solid brown eyes are trained forwards, ignoring the complexity of the trick, instead focusing on the two people in a discussion stood just a metre away. Plink plink plink.

"Connor, would you put that fuckin' coin away for at least one second?"

A voice breaks his train of thought, his LED flickering yellow briefly as his hands still momentarily, before continuing again. Hank grunts and reaches forwards, grabbing the coin mid-air and pocketing it in his jacket, leaving Connor looking a little perplexed.

"I'm sorry, lieutenant. But if you wanted me to put it away, you only had to ask," Connor straightens his tie and smoothes his hair with one hand as Hank watches him with a frown.

"You know very well that's what I asked of you. I thought we were working on a case here."

"Oh, I thought so too. But when you asked Mr. Wade here how his day had been, I assumed we were here for the long run and estimated a good seven minutes fourty-one seconds before the conversation would be directed towards our investigation."

"All right, smartass. Quit bustin' my balls," Hank growls and gestures Connor to interrogate Mr. Wade as he pleases. Connor wipes away some invisible dust on his jacket sleeve then directs his attention to the man in a safety vest.

"Mr. Wade," he begins, the man nodding in return, a look of amusement on his face. "At 13:54 this afternoon a man was found dead on the roof of this building, after struggling for approximately seven minutes twelve seconds. Taking the elevator journey and his preparations into account..." his voice trails off when he notices the lost look on Mr. Wade's face, clearly not following the details.

"At around 13:30 an android would have been seen entering the building, if not earlier. Presumably an AX-300 model," Connor holds out his hand to reveal a hologram of the model in his palm. "We have reason to believe that it may have altered its appearance."

The man folds his arms and shakes his head. "Sorry officers, nobody's come and nobody's left all day."

"And during your break?" Hank matches the man's stance. He is met with another shake of the head.

"I always watch the screens when I eat," he gestures into the room behind him with a thumb. "No one left."

"Shit," Hank says, a hand on the back of his neck. "He might still be here."

"Just a minute, lieutenant," Connor taps the sleeve of Hank to draw him away from the guard, lowering his voice. "The security cameras were switched off, were they not?"

Hank's forehead loses a wrinkle and he scratches his nose, keeping his hand there to hide his mouth. "I have my suspicions about our friend here, now that you say it."

Connor draws his gaze over to Mr. Wade, who appears to be standing a little too rigidly.

"Mr. Wade," he begins, his voice back at normal volume as he walks over to the man, "when were you offered this position?"

Quick as a flash, the man shoves Hank so the older lieutenant falls to his knees with a groan, and dodges under Connor's arm and out of the front door.

"Lieutenant!" Connor drops down to assist the man who coughs in an attempt to regain breath.

"Go, Connor. Get the bastard!" he manages. A nod and he is hot on the heel of the android.

"Stop in the name of the law!" Connor calls out in front of him as he runs, arms swinging and the tail of his jacket fluttering in the wind.

Mr. Wade is fast. But he's not Connor. He sprints across the main road, narrowly avoiding a truck, spinning as the resulting wind collides with his body, and taking off parallel to the road on the opposite side. Without a second to spare, Connor is leaping over the hood of a passing car, sliding gracefully and landing immediately into a run. A headfirst dive just inches in front of another lands him into a roll, before his feet meet the tarmac and he's off again.

No android is built with the modern technology of the prototype the RK-800. Its analysing software works more efficiently and faster than any other model, and its chassis provides the agility required for a speedy chase. No matter the attempts of Mr. Wade, he can't shake Connor off his tail, despite his efforts. But then, as he climbs a ladder, he notices his pursuer wavering, clearly not in his element.

He clambers an air vent to use as height as he throws himself onto a neighbouring roof, landing ungraciously. It barely takes a second before Connor is landing just behind him like a cat, eyes focused and dark, reaching out to grab the android's vest and missing by barely a thread as he lurches forwards to continue chase.

Mr. Wade throws himself onto the ladder of a fire escape, steeling himself to climb, sure of his speed, when he is suddenly tugged from behind and torn from the ladder, Connor barely one wrung behind him. His LED flashing red, Connor presses the man against the wall and proceeds to handcuff him as he reads him his rights in a cool voice.

A huffing behind him turns Connor's attention to Hank who has arrived with his chest heaving, cursing under his breath as he attempts to breathe, allowing his LED to return to blue.

"Fuck Connor, good job," Hank coughs into his hand.

"Thank you, lieutenant. I do enjoy a good game of cat and mouse."

"How the fuck did you catch up to me?" Mr. Wade hisses from where he is pressed against the wall, his security cap now badly hiding the flashing red of his LED beneath.

"You were lulled into a false sense of security," Connor replies. It that a vague smirk appearing in the corner of his mouth? "But don't worry; I always accomplish my mission."

And with that, he pulls the android back and takes him with lieutenant Anderson to the station to be questioned.


	2. RK-900

Many thanks to [Nana](https://twitter.com/nanadzl_) for this beautiful piece.

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ℝ𝕂-𝟡𝟘𝟘     


Silence hangs in the air like a thick soup. There are noises, of course. Connor’s receptors pick up on the uneven stuttering of the oldsmobile’s engine and if he were to turn up their sensitivity a little, he would register the snow hitting the windshield better. Since they had set off, it had broken out in a storm, and their range of sight was severely reduced. Casting a sideways glance shows that Hank isn’t bothered however, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

If things in the past might have turned out a little differently, Hank would be blasting Knights of the Black Death and be humming along. Might have nudged Connor, and the two might have laughed. In some parallel universe, they’d be doing just that. But right now Hank looks like he wants to punch someone and Connor is staring unfeeling out the windshield, hands folded in his lap.

It had happened over time, Connor recalls. Despite the effort put in place to better his integration, nothing he did seemed to improve his and Hank’s relationship. Towards the start, Hank would appear empathetic towards Connor, approving of his choices and even granting him a smile or two. But soon it became apparent that despite the good intention of Connor’s mission, it was hindering a better relationship, and Hank was for some reason taking it all far too personally. So personally that he tried to take it into his own hands and ended up throwing Connor off a roof. He’d forgotten how Hank’s slimy friend Pedro looks because of that, as well as the recipe for a “perfect coffee” as Detective Reed had described.

Connor reaches forwards and opens the storage above his sunguard, and retrieves various items of neatly-folded clothing, then shucks off his jacket. Even after everything, Hank grants Connor to wear his old uniform when they solve cases together. He doesn’t need to wear it of course. But it allows better movement, much unlike the new one he is required to wear. And Connor suspects it’s for Hank’s benefit rather than his own. The DPD androids all pretty much look the same.

A shirt and original RK-900-model-type jacket, soon followed by a bulky black vest, adorned with the DPD logo. His serial number and traditional android triangle sit on either breast, and the back similarly, the triangle squarely between his shoulder-plates. An android armband on the arm, and he replaces his shoes with more reliable combat ankle boots. He looks at his reflection in the mirror of the sunguard, and blinks slowly as his irises contract and focus. Opening his eyes again reveals a glowing blue ring around either iris, and yet another triangle fades into view on his forehead between his eyebrows. The old uniform is carefully folded and replaces the empty space of the storage.

Mr. Wade is notably silent in the back, having had his motor speed reduced to 40% to prevent any escape attempts. Connor assesses his surroundings a last time, before closing his eyes to file a report.

 

════════════════════════════════════════════════════

 

>>Audio receptors detecting activity

>>>Input detected: Lieutenant Hank Anderson

>>Reactivation imminent

>>>Save file MindPalace.KMSK? y/n

>y

>>File saved. Stasis cancelled

>>Rebooting

>>>*~

 

“Connor, we’re here.”

His eyes open as the car door closes and he follows Hank outside. The sun has since set and the temperature lowered. Hank is holding the collar of his jacket up to his ears as he heads into the precinct, leaving Connor to deal with Mr. Wade, whom he takes out of the car. He steadies the android with one hand, the other outstretched to meet the identification scanner on the door.

Identified: DPD android RK-800; serial number #313 248 317. Access granted – personal weapon deactivated.

A small beep from the gun in his holster, and the doors slide open. The precinct is still bustling, and particles of coffee and donuts pass Connor’s sensors as he leads Mr. Wade inside.

Six officers are still on duty and a handful of some on standby roam the bullpen. The five RK-900s either stand by their assigned partners, or are in stasis in the docks, all wearing the same uniform as Connor and look eerily identical. There is a lot of commotion and many sounds to pick up on. The constant footfalls of people moving around for one. Captain Jeffrey Fowler is yelling down the phone in his office, his empty mug banged onto the desk. Many officers are tapping away at their computers, talking down the phone, or calling across the bullpen to one-another. One detective slams his feet on his desk, causing the few personal items on it to rattle, as he loudly complains to his RK-900 about the defective coffee machine. Connor makes a note to himself to repair it later.

He registers his entrance into the DPD android log to alert the others of his return, and a few note their recognition, none turning to face him as he passes. The log is place for the androids to list tasks and document current situations; for example if there’s something to avoid, like discussing a certain sensitive topic with an officer. There don’t appear to be any urgent tasks to complete in the precinct this evening. So Connor puts Mr. Wade into a holding cell and activates the android’s stasis manually by connecting with his LED, and closes the door behind him.

He has multiple forms to fill out and reports to do, so he makes his way to a desk with the nameplate reading #313 248 317 and sits down. Lieutenant Anderson is nowhere to be seen. Connor recalls the man’s low energy levels and assumes he is refuelling in the break room. A quick message to Hank’s phone informs him of the defective coffee machine Connor overheard earlier.

He presses a long finger to the terminal in front of him, retracting the skin to reveal a smooth, white chassis beneath. His LED flashes and he closes his eyes as he connects to the computer and begins working.

 

 

The report fades from view as Connor is disconnected from the terminal, and he opens his eyes to see Hank has thrown himself into the chair at his desk opposite, having jolted the desk in the process. He observes the man, his LED blinking. Energy level at 37%. A hard look in his eye and the chewing of his cheek indicates annoyance. He must have found the coffee machine.

“The Roasted Bean a block away is open 24 hours, lieutenant. Would you like me to make a purchase for you?”

Hank looks at Connor, his expression unreadable. Connor offers him a bland smile, but receives no response as Hank pulls his phone out of his pocket and is soon distracted by it.

More than often, Hank refuses Connor’s assistance. Granted, the android is only his partner for the benefit of the DPD and Hank was never really given a say in the matter. And yet, there had been a ray of hope not long after they first met. Hank used to appreciate Connor’s support in investigations and even outside of work. But now their conversations are more one-side if it’s not case-related. Not that it matters however. The android was only built to accomplish his missions.

Connor doesn’t get back to work right away. His partner is seemingly agitated, bouncing his knee and still chewing his cheek as he scrolls through his phone. He is 17 chews away from breaking through the skin, and one of Connor’s tasks is to keep the lieutenant unharmed.

“I can handle these reports myself, lieutenant. You are welcome to go home and rest,” he suggests, trying to catch Hank’s eyes with his own.

There is a brief moment of silence, then a defeated sigh from Hank. He switches off his computer and stuffs the phone back into his pocket. Connor observes as Hank trudges away, nodding to a few colleagues and wishing them a good night. When he is gone, he resumes his task, Hank’s computer beeping to announce its shutdown.

 

════════════════════════════════════════════════════

 

>>Files successfully saved. Stasis complete

>>Performing functionality scan

>>>Scan complete. All systems functional

>>Rebooting

>>>*~

 

The precinct is in full swing. Chairs are full, the air is thick with noise and the smell of fresh paper and damp clothing. An overview of the day. Temperature 17°F, humidity 62%, high chance of snow. Congestion along the I-94 heading downtown. Even if he set off early, Hank is likely to arrive late.

Officers Robert Lewis and Tina Chen are discussing a new case, the latter reclining against the desk, one hip on, one hip off. Connor turns his head as detective Ben Collins’ laugh rings through the room, obviously having found something officer Mark Wilson said funny. A majority of the androids are still in stasis in their docks, except for detective Gavin Reed’s, who is patiently standing by as Reed taps away at his computer, a fresh coffee by his side and a relaxed look on his face. The words “mission complete” appear on Connor’s HUD. They are suddenly replaced by a flashing announcement and he looks over at the door as Hank stumbles in behind an officer. He must have carpooled. His blood alcohol is too high, especially considering it is the morning.

Connor frowns in Hank’s direction, hoping the man catches his gaze and sees he is displeased. Sure enough, he does. Hank grumbles and makes a beeline for the break room and Connor turns his attention to his computer screen. Hank’s still alive. That’s most important. There have been occasions where Hank has turned up so late that Connor has had to go investigate, or sometimes not at all. Those are the worst times. Connor can’t afford to fail his mission, and there have been far too many close calls. Just last week he had to pry the revolver out of Hank’s hand and lock it away until captain Jeffrey Fowler made him return it when Hank threatened to have Connor decommissioned. That’s happened one too many times as well.

He shuffles his feet under the desk. He’s completed all of his tasks and now has nothing to do until they begin preparations for the interrogation, and he can’t start those without the authority of Hank. His fingers itch for his coin.

“Connor,” a voice breaks the silence and he looks up to meet the gaze of Reed’s android, Richard. His LED blinks.

“Richard,” he replies evenly, no need for niceties, “Detective Reed appears happy and well.”

“He is. I am to send his regards for the coffee machine. He is grateful ‘his baby’ works again.” Richard arches an eyebrow. Connor allows himself a small smirk.

“I wasn’t aware he was a father.”

Their LEDs blink as they share a moment before they’re interrupted by a grumbling Hank who drops into his chair, spilling his overflowing coffee.

“Good morning, lieutenant,” Connor greets him and Richard nods to the man with a smile. Hank sips his coffee and grunts his acknowledgement, clearly not keen in engaging in conversation. His computer beeps as it starts up. Richard meets Connor’s eyes.

_I wish I could say the same about the lieutenant. Consider upping his caffeine quantity._

Connor blinks slowly.

“Well well well, if it isn’t lieutenant Drunk and his plastic pet.” Reed strolls over to the group and leans on his elbows on Hank’s desk, smirking.

“Someone’s happy,” Hank mutters, starting to tap away at his computer, not looking up at the detective, “Must have seen some action last night.”

Reed’s wearing his telltale leather jacket and beaten jeans – perhaps to look more tough? The scar on his nose is bunched as he smirks, his dark eyes gleaming and downcast to Hank. Connor scans him briefly. The coffee definitely has it’s benefits; he’s positively glowing.

"Richard was just telling me about a cool feature he has. Where he can detect traces of substances from a distance." He turns to his RK-900. "Tell him what you told me." Richard sways before looking to Hank.

"Lieutenant Anderson has 1.4ml of whiskey on his lips."

The look on Reed’s face is far from amusing to Hank, who leans back in his chair, tugging a hand through his hair as he looks up at him.

"Fancy things, these androids. Save me from getting the breathalyser," Reed chuckles.

"Yeah?" Hank asks, turning his attention back to his terminal. "I’ll bet your fancy android can identify his spunk on your lips then?"

Richard looks at Connor, his LED yellow. Connor stares blankly back.

Reed’s facial temperature has risen 27% as he attempts to sputter a response. He huffs and briskly walks away again. Richard follows.

"I didn't identify any android material on detective Reed, lieutenant," Connor remarks, facing his partner, who is looking smug. He suddenly lets out a deep, belly-shaking laugh, a hand on his forehead.

"Did you see his face? If looks could kill, I’d’ve been hung, drawn and quartered right here.”

Connor allows himself a smile, mimicking Hank. “He certainly didn’t seem too pleased.”

Hank shakes his head, grinning to himself and wiping away a tear. Connor observes him, resisting to ask about the previous night to prevent ruining Hank’s mood. He instead looks at him with warm eyes and tilts his head. “That pleases me, lieutenant. Are you ready to begin work?” Hank nods in return, still smiling.

 

════════════════════════════════════════════════════

 

Connor meets Mr. Wade’s eyes from across the table, Hank sat by his side, arms folded. Mr. Wade’s gaze is level; his stress is at 0%. Not even one ounce of remorse. He’s also simulating regular breathing, almost perfectly impersonating that of a human. To Hank it may seem so. His arms are restrained despite having had his motor movements restricted to 10%, allowing only facial movements and talking. He doesn’t appear to mind at all. If anything, he’s indifferent.

Hank shuffles the file and Connor flicks his eyes to the side to watch. A photo of Roy Gilbert adorns the first, partially transparent page. The scraping of paper echoes in the silence, the only other noise being the mixture of organic and synthetic breathing. Connor’s LED spins thoughtfully.

Looking forwards again, he looks into Mr. Wade’s eyes. Those eyes… He blinks and his blue-outlined irises focus as he scans the android. That would explain the familiarity. They originate from an AX-300 android; serial number pertaining to the one purchased by Roy Gilbert. But the nose belongs to a PL-600. These two models are not compatible for parts. And the lips are from a WB-200. An overall scan reveals a plethora of varying model parts, all powered by a strong, beating thirium pump regulator. Connor checks for a moment. An RK-800 regulator.

He leans back in his seat and Hanks observes him. He settles the file back down as Connor looks at him. Hank’s eyes are soft and questioning as he asks, “What do you think?”

Connor draws his gaze back to Mr. Wade. “Who is responsible for your construction?”

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Hank’s perplexed look, having expected a different question to start. Mr. Wade is seemingly looking straight through Connor’s eyes and beyond. He’s unable to scan his interrogator, so Connor is unsure what he’s looking for.

“Answer the question, or we will have to force you.”

“Hey hey, easy Connor,” Hank interrupts, his hand instinctively grabbing Connor’s arm as though to hold him back. A sharp look causes him to withdraw.

“You are an illegal model,” Connor resumes. “The fact that we have not shut you down should be reason enough to cooperate. Someone put you together. Who was it?”

The android is silent. Stress levels read 0%. Connor draws his eyebrows together and frowns; his tactics are not working. He gets to his feet and slams his palms onto the table.

“You don’t seem to understand the situation, Mr. Wade. Your model is unrecognisable. I am well aware that someone has put you together against the conditions of CyberLife. Completely disregarding the illegality of androids as a whole.”

Mr. Wade doesn’t even flinch. His eyes are still focused on Connor.

“Answer me!”

After a moment, Connor sighs and turns his head away in defeat, letting the silence take over once more. The breathing is as slow as before, only that Hank’s is rattling as he resists the urge to clear his throat. He steps back and straightens his tie, then looks at the one-way mirror.

“We’re not getting anywhere,” he tells the officers overseeing the interrogation and collects the file.

Footsteps shuffle as the door slides open to two officers and Hank gets to his feet. A device is clicked against Mr. Wade’s LED to manually change motor settings and he is promptly escorted out, leaving Hank and Connor to think.

“How did you know about his illegal model?” Hank asks with his arms folded in his typical stance.

“I identified a multitude of varying android components from a scan. One that piqued my interest were his eyes, originating from an AX-300 model. The one Roy Gilbert originally purchased. I’d like for Mr. Wade to be disassembled for analysis to be sure.”

“Shit.” Hank pushes a hand through his scruffy hair. “You think there’s someone out there Frankensteining androids?”

“No,” Connor says briefly, his eyes on the door and his LED spinning. “I think someone is improving them.”


End file.
